


You can’t just say you’re leaving and head to the airport, or, Real Life is messier than a television finale

by mayoho



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Abed freaking out and dealing with it (mostly) constructively, Character Study, Episode: s06e13 Emotional Consequences of Broadcast Television, Gen, Moving On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 10:26:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5001169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayoho/pseuds/mayoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After telling the Study Group that he's leaving for Los Angeles, Abed has to spend a few uncomfortable days in time and space reality ought to apologize for. He knows that in the television show of his life, all of this will end up on the cutting room floor but that doesn't mean he gets to skip through it. This time, at least, living life in real time turns out to be worth the resulting revelations even when it's awkward and a bit painful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can’t just say you’re leaving and head to the airport, or, Real Life is messier than a television finale

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank pineapplebooks for beta reading. Without her help, this would have taken even more months to finish and would never have been quite as good.

Abed surveys his nearly empty bedroom--the labeled stacks of boxes and his suitcases. 52 hours until he flies to Los Angeles. He’s finished packing until his brain skips a track and he’s not. He is sort of shaky as he unpacks the three boxes of DVDs and carefully repacks them, no longer by genre and then alphabetically by director with a few exceptions to keep the television series packed together, but by how much he can stand to leave them in his Dad’s attic without feeling like he is leaving his entire carefully cultivated support network in Colorado.

He unpacks the boxes and repacks them. It’s not working. He does it again, and again, and again. Annie calls for him to pick takeout for dinner. Abed’s chest feels tight and his stomach hurts. He considers ignoring her--nearly does. He stands up and takes several deep breaths. He quickly stacks the DVDs back into the boxes and shoves them next to his suitcases.

Annie nearly bumps into Abed between the kitchen and his bedroom. He’d never told her he was coming. He places his hands carefully on her shoulders--steadying. They both don’t like to be called repeatedly; they get too caught up in their own heads sometimes, it doesn’t really help. He assesses Annie carefully. She looks more like she does in the behind the scenes footage from the Go Greendale commercial than the snapshots from #AnniesMove. Abed knows this is important even as he comes up blank as to why.

“What do you want to eat?”

Abed shakes his head. No. He doesn’t want to eat. Doesn’t know what he wants to eat. Buttered Noodles would be safe; Annie would hate that.

Her face scrunches up, creases appearing on her forehead and her mouth going a bit tighter. It’s not one of the slightly exaggerated faces she makes for his benefit. _You’re afraid you’ll be alone_ , she had said, _Great news, you share that with all of us_. And here they are, leaving, alone. Afraid.

“Pizza or Chinese,” Abed says. He looks at Annie, instead of through her like he was before. The words don’t stick in his throat--he thought they would.

Annie swallows visibly. “The Chinese place lets you order online and delivers.”

Abed nods. Annie rests her head on his shoulder so he navigates through the phone menus with one hand, first texting Britta to see if he should order her something. He shouldn’t; she says she won’t be home until after midnight and something approaching gibberish about ‘MSG’ and ‘cultural appropriation’. Annie is warm against him, but not in a way that’s uncomfortable.

“I need to go to the UPS Store.”

Annie sighs. It falls within the established parameters for fond rather than frustrated. She pulls away to consult the color coded schedule she had drawn up to maximize the efficiency of their car usage tomorrow. Annie had turned her car over to its new owner earlier this afternoon, leaving the three of them with Britta’s car. They don't need an elaborate schedule; it's how Annie is. He can still feel the lingering warmth of her.

“Do you have more boxes? If everything still fits we can go on the way to your Dad’s.”

“No.” That’s ambiguous. “No more boxes.”

Annie is still messing with her highlighters when the buzzer rings. Abed goes to get the food and pays the delivery person. Annie’s the only person he doesn’t ask for money when he pays for food. He’s tried to work out criteria to justify it; he’s never quite managed. 

They stream episodes of Friends from Jeff’s Netflix account as they eat on the couch (the extra one that’s not also Britta’s bed). They’re leaving all of the furniture for Britta, for when they come back--maybe, probably, maybe (maybe not). They’ve watched the first half of season 3 by the time Britta comes home and all three of them go to bed.

Abed’s room feels strange and empty with all of his things boxed up in the corner. Like it’s not his anymore. He falls asleep anyway.

 

In the morning, Abed eats Lucky Charms while Annie lectures him on the updated schedule. UPS Store. Post Office. Two trips to his Dad’s house, who has kindly let Annie store her things in the attic. Falafel for lunch. Stop at Britta’s parents’ house to say goodbye. Pick up Britta at the apartment. Meet Jeff and Frankie for an early dinner. Frankie will drive them home so Britta can take the car to work. Listening to Annie talk at him, Abed feels fuzzy and disconnected--he’s existing in space and time reality ought to apologize for. He puts his empty cereal bowl in the sink and carries boxes down to the car. Britta pretends to be asleep on her couch-bed.

He lets Annie talk to the woman manning the cash register at the UPS Store, hovering behind her shoulder, fingers curled around the strap of his satchel. He pays enough attention to seamlessly hand the woman his debit card and sign the receipt when it's needed. He doesn’t want to talk to her.

Annie talks aimlessly on the car ride to his Dad’s house. He knows she knows he’s not listening; she’s trying to distract herself from something. Abed remains quiet as they carry boxes from the trunk to the rickety attic ladder. Dad won’t let Annie carry the boxes up the steps. Britta would start an argument about sexism, how she is completely capable of carrying boxes, and if there was any poetic justice in the world (which Abed has found there usually is) trip and sprain her ankle. Annie smiles brightly and carries more boxes in from the car, gets everyone glasses of water, which draws a crease between Dad’s eyebrows--not an angry one, goes back to the apartment to get the rest of the boxes, and keeps up polite conversation. Details about her internship and apartment in DC. How kind it is of Abed’s Dad to let her keep her stuff here. How proud he must be of Abed for getting a job in California. Her voice is more deliberate and measured whenever she drifts into the last topic.

Abed and his Dad do not communicate well. Abed hadn’t told Dad he was leaving for Los Angeles until he had accepted the job offer, found an apartment (Annie had helped with that; Abed prefers not to email strangers from craigslist ads), and bought his plane ticket. Abed had extrapolated that Dad was unlikely to object outright; he would make the inscrutable, not quite angry face and be deliberately unhelpful. Abed didn’t have sufficient data to draw from. It had seemed best to minimize as many variables as possible--present a fully formed plan that he could lay out from start to finish. Annie knows all this, had watched him so carefully when he had returned with take out cartons of falafel, chicken skewers, and salad with lemon dressing.

 

Now, Annie is outside double checking that she’s gotten everything out of the car. Abed is looking at a stray dust bunny in the corner. Dad wipes his hands on his pants legs. It’s silent in a way that Abed knows from observation is tense, but he doesn’t feel it. His brain is caught framing the dust bunny, working out if it could pass for symbolism or needed to be cut.

Dad hugs him. Abed’s body goes tense; he wasn’t expecting this. If Dad had ever done this to (with) Abed, it was before he began retaining reliable memories. He presses his palms carefully against Dad’s back and relaxes slightly into the contact. It’s calming in a way he wouldn’t have anticipated.

“I am proud of you, Abed.” Dad’s voice is soft and choked like it had been the day he had agreed to pay for Abed’s film classes.

Abed pulls away so he can see his Dad’s face: red, liquidly eyes--not crying. The extra parts of Abed’s brain, the parts that deal with the subtleties of interacting with other people, have shut down. He’s blank faced and wide eyed--can’t make the connection that he shouldn’t be, wouldn’t know what else to do with his face if he did--when he nods. He knows that, knew that already. Hearing it shouldn’t make a difference. It does.

Dad pats him on the shoulder. “Annie is waiting for you,” he says.

Abed nods again, walks out of the house, into Annie’s car. He fumbles with the seat belt; his fingers are very far away.

Annie is watching him: brows drawn together, mouth turned down slightly; concern. Abed can, should, fix that. He draws his legs up, resting his feet on the edge of the seat and his forehead on his knees. His brain catches up with his body and everything is too close, too much. Annie turns off the radio. It helps. Abed looks up at her; she’s observing him, face still tight. She doesn’t say anything. Annie has learned to tell when talking would make things worse. It’s not something Troy ever learned. He hadn’t needed to, had always trusted Abed implicitly to tell him what he needed to know--maybe he shouldn’t have.

Abed reaches out and squeezes Annie’s shoulder. It’s a gesture of reassurance. It works; Annie shifts the car into drive.

He doesn't move while Annie’s in the post office. She has a stack of business and letter sized, white and manila envelopes. Abed hadn’t asked what they were for. He closes his eyes, waiting. It’s warm and slightly stuffy with the air conditioning off and the windows closed.

“We can go home.” Annie is back in the car, her voice is soft and pitched differently from her normal speaking voice--not quite the voice she uses when she’s being sweetly condescending.

Abed shakes his head. They need to stick to the script.

 

Deb and George want to give him hugs and fresh baked snickerdoodles. He doesn’t need to give them anything back in exchange. This is fine. Simple, expected, conventional, easy--nothing like Britta. They coo the praises their real daughter would never accept to their sort of adopted pseudo-children. Abed spins a plot in his head about extraterrestrials infiltrating a family, stealing love and affection from a more legitimate child. It would be such an easy thing to do. The protagonist can’t understand how good she has it until her life is stolen out from under her. It’s structurally obvious and conventional, has probably already been done, but the idea feels immensely personal in a way that might resonate with an audience without descending into heavy-handed melodrama--he can draft the script on the plane. He sits on the couch pressed against Annie's side (her hand warm and grounding on his knee when she's not using it to gesture), eats too many cookies, and drinks his glass of milk.

Britta's parents are accepting of Abed's quiet and Annie's excuses to make an exit as soon as Abed finishes his milk. They exchange final parting hugs and smiles as they show them to the door. This screenplay, Abed thinks, will have a happy ending, even for the interloping, changeling aliens. Not all commentary on the human condition needs to be bleak.

 

Britta makes a face at Annie and Abed when they return to the apartment, her nose scrunched up like they are contaminating her with her parents’ affection. Annie sighs: the one she generally reserves for Britta--dismissive. 

They have time before diner. Abed takes a shower; he’s having trouble keeping track of his limbs, the prickly feeling of the water touching his skin isn’t helping. He dries off quickly, dresses (boxer briefs, socks, skinny jeans, t-shirt, sweater), and follows the girls to the car.

 

Annie and Britta’s conversation in the front seat falls into a familiar pattern--a focal point for the rest of the world to blur around. He follows Britta out of the car. They’re in the mall parking lot. If he were filming this, Britta’s hair (it’s in soft curls today even though she’s been wearing it straight more often recently) would catch the orange glow of the streetlamps like a halo. She’s wearing tight acid wash jeans and a leather jacket with metal zippers. Abed wonders if it’s a deliberate callback to the woman she was when they first met; he can never tell with Britta. She moves like a stop-motion animated puppet--a bit jerky and exaggerated. Abed wonders if he looks like that to other people.

Abed trails Annie and Britta into the restaurant, framing the shot in his head. They’re a study in contrast--close enough in height to effortlessly compose a scene around. It falls apart when they are seated in the restaurant where Frankie and Jeff are already waiting (something is wrong, Jeff is always late). He’s had plenty of practice framing these people around a table, but it’s the wrong shape, this isn’t where they belong. Later, he won’t remember what he ate or what Annie and Frankie and Jeff and Britta had said while he watched; he’ll remember Jeff glancing at him every so often, the look on his face too complicated to include in a montage, too complicated for Abed to understand. 

 

Abed follows Frankie to her car. Annie dawdles behind. She’s talking quietly to Jeff, playing with her hair--not in the way teenage girls do in movies to show that they’re flirting, he doesn’t know what to make of it.

“Should I be worried about you? You seem--” Frankie makes a face and waves a hand back-and-forth, up-and-down.

Abed doesn’t know how to explain. The imaginary camera he's put between himself and reality feels safe--necessary. He knows how it might look. If he were Jeff, he would say something like, “It’s all fine and dandy until Abed has a psychotic break; don’t worry about it,” and smile the smile Abed has come to know means that Jeff cares and worries more than he can allow himself to let on. 

“I am...” Abed mimics Frankie’s hand gesture. He looks over her shoulder at Jeff and Annie. Everything around him feels fragile and uncertain. A tipping point where the future will branch into one in an infinite number of timelines. He feels a lot like the time he wrapped his head in bubble wrap and Troy hit him with the tennis racket and it didn’t really hurt. It doesn’t fit a narrative yet. It will. “You shouldn’t worry. It won’t stay like this.”

“If you change your mind, call me. Any time. I don’t sleep.”

Abed smiles at Frankie. It’s not one of his best. It’s passable; it’s easier than finding the right words.

Annie drifts towards them--away from Jeff--and Frankie drives them home. In the quiet of the car, Abed notes his exhaustion.

 

He accompanies Annie on a walk around Greendale the next morning to say goodbye. It’s ritualistic and has an air of finality (even though they are still maybe, probably, maybe (maybe not) coming back)--something that belongs in an indie coming of age film, would never even make the script of a sitcom. 

Annie reminisces as they walk. Abed mostly listens; words don’t seem like enough--he could capture this on film and show Annie once he’s fiddled with the color balance until it looks the way it feels, but he needs to be in the shot--there isn’t time. Life is fleeting. More so in this moment than it usually is, but it doesn’t worry him as much as it could. He thinks Annie understands without being shown.

They loop back to their building and stand in the parking lot looking up at the fire escape. He knows they are both thinking about the thing they never ever speak about--the one with the Batman DVD, the grappling hook, and the landlord. He doesn’t know what happened to the cracked DVD; the grappling hook is in the bag he will check; their landlord is no longer in jail. A car pulls into the lot. The tires on the gravel make an unpleasant noise--jarring. Annie’s Forensics Club friends are taking her out for lunch. Abed slips away before he’s noticed--they are the type of people who will ask him along if he gives them a chance. He would rather play with Britta’s cats. Though it had started on rocky ground, Abed and the cats had negotiated a mutually acceptable relationship where they all stayed out of each other’s ways until Abed took out the cat toys--the string with the feathers on the end being a particular favorite. Abed will miss them. 

Abed had said his goodbyes earlier in the week. It had seemed best to start wrapping up the loose plot threads early. He hates when these things are left unresolved. Pavel had come over the apartment to make halushki. Garrett and Stacey had invited him to dinner in their brand new (to them) house. Abed had brought them a carefully re-edited copy of the documentary he had filmed at their wedding. It is obvious to him, even with the extensive changes, that their wedding was a mostly incidental backdrop to a study on his most documented subject--the interpersonal dynamics of his Study Group. Abed is not always good at working out what other people will notice, but he thinks the gesture will be appreciated either way--he had had good footage of the ceremony and the bit where Chang had saved their relationship (the, he assumes, most important parts of the day for the couple). The AV Club--members from both Greendale and City College--had thrown him a party (a towering stack of pizza boxes and a cooler full of Diet Squirt in the courtyard closest to the classroom where the club stored their equipment). It hadn’t been as tiring as expected; it had filled him with a sense of warmth (the feeling of knowing one is appreciated). 

 

Jeff picks them up outside their apartment and then they’re past security. Their flights are timed so that it wouldn’t be practical to wait together.

“Abed.” Annie puts a hand on the side of his neck and cups his upper arm with the other. They are standing much closer together than Abed’s understanding of the appropriate physical space between friends allows, but he trusts Annie to make that call, has for a very long time now, and this is not the farthest they’ve pushed those boundaries. They’re not just friends, but they're also not anything else either. He looks at her searchingly, making the kind of eye contact that many people find disconcerting but he can’t seem to train himself out of.

“Promise we’ll keep in touch, that you won’t ignore my emails.”

Abed nods slightly and then says, “Yes.” It’s the type of promise that requires verbal confirmation.

“I’ll miss you. I’ll miss everyone, but I’ll miss you the most.”

“Not Jeff?”

Annie smiles at him. It’s not a familiar smile. It’s like it’s an effort to keep it on her face, but the skin around Annie’s eyes crinkles in a way that is hard to fake. “Abed, you’re my best friend. That’s more important.”

He thinks of Annie and then he thinks of Troy, and all the things he’s shared with both of them. His throat feels tight and his skin feels too warm. He focuses on the sensation, trying to will it away. It almost works.

“Are we going to be okay?” Annie’s eyes are huge and a bit watery. It’s an abrupt change in topic, maybe a sign of distress.

“Yes.” Abed, suddenly completely present in the moment, finds he means it. “We can’t know what’s out there, what will happen next, but whatever it is, I think we can handle it. And if we can’t, that will be okay too.”

They spend five minutes workshopping handshakes, finally settling on the simple one they had used freshman year--palms pressed together, back and forth. Annie shoves him gently in the shoulder, the weird smile from before replacing a more genuine one. “Don’t miss your flight.”

Abed finds himself mimicking her expression. It makes his eyes water and his throat hurt. He holds onto the feeling; it seems important. He nods and wraps Annie in a tight hug before she walks away, fingers wrapped around her phone tight enough to turn her knuckles white.

This isn’t a television show where structural conventions don’t allow for communication technology; cables and invisible radio waves connect them like lifelines. Abed’s hands shake slightly as he abandons the format and opens the email application on his phone.

‘moving to Los Angeles. please come visit.’ he types, followed carefully by his new address. Abed sends his first email to Troy Barnes.

**Author's Note:**

> This is so short, really, but I feel like I've written a novel. It seems like I agonized over nearly every word of it and I now understand why authors beg for feedback. Usually when I write fan fic, it's because I felt like playing around with some words or a character moment and having strangers read it is a largely unintended but really gratifying side effect. With this one, I wanted--maybe even needed--to share the feeling I had when I watched the series finale, so putting this out there is scary in a way it has never been before. I desperately want people to read this and for it to effect them in some way. 
> 
> So in summary, as always, constructive criticism or any other type of feedback is welcome and (even more so that usual) appreciated.


End file.
